Out of There
by Mad Server
Summary: Dean is sick coming off a hunt. Sam knows all the right moves.


Title: Out Of There  
Author: Mad Server  
Rating: T  
Pairing: none  
A/N: Yeah... busted. I have a hang-up and it's called sick!Dean. Thanks again to my lovely beta Susannah Eanes. This fic was partly inspired by iamstealthyone's fic "In Want And Sympathy."  
Disclaimer: I didn't create Supernatural and I don't own these characters. (Obviously.)  
Summary: Dean is sick coming off a hunt. Sam knows all the right moves.

* * *

They like to move on straightaway once a hunt is wrapped.

They break laws everywhere they go, and while Sam used to fight that, used to work his ass off in fact trying to find ways for them to hunt clean and legal, he's resigned to it now. It's for the greater good, Sammy, Dean said to him once, flashing him a grin as he expertly picked a lock, and in time Sam has come to agree. And so, when they finish a job, they move on or get busted.

Even if they've managed to keep a hunt relatively legal, though, there's another reason they like to move on right away, a reason they never talk about. They move on because they're lonely and they're guilty.

Oh yeah. Sit still for a couple days and their own thoughts will drive them bonkers. Dean will go out and get drunk and pick a fight with a guy twice his size. Sam will stay in and chew his fingernails until they bleed. They need to have something to do, a job to focus on.

It doesn't help that they're constantly lying to people.

Sure, right, the greater good. If someone is going to have their head bashed in by a demon unless you can find out where they live, you're going to tell the sheriff whatever it takes to get their address, fucking right. And when you get to that person's house, are you going to tell them you're there to save them from a demon? Of course not; you'll tell them you're there to check the water meter, or that you're canvassing for the Cancer Society.

The lies add up though, and it gets to Sam every once in awhile. He knows it's a basic human need: being honest with people, being seen and heard and recognized.

* * *

Sam sighs now and scrubs a hand over his face. They're back at the motel after a rigorous night of salting and burning, and the sun's just coming up. Sam's sitting on the bed waiting for Dean to finish his shower. No way they're going to move on right away; they've got to get some sleep first.

It's unusual for Dean to take the first shower, and Sam wonders not for the first time tonight whether his brother is all right.

There were two graves to deal with in the night, and while they were digging up the second one, its ghost manifested and came at Dean. Dean's reflexes and aim are normally top-notch, but tonight he couldn't draw his weapon in time to fend off the first attack, and on the second attack he fired repeatedly but he couldn't hit the thing. By then Sam had been able to get to his own weapon and was able to keep the ghost at bay while Dean got to the bones and took care of them, and nobody got hurt too badly. No harm done really, but Dean hasn't met his eyes since.

The water shuts off and a couple minutes later Dean comes out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist. He's moving stiffly despite the shower, and when he turns to get his shorts Sam can see bruises already starting to form on his back, where the ghost knocked him against a gravestone.

'That's going to be sore tomorrow,' says Sam. 'Come here.' Sam is fishing in his bag for the ointment they use.

Dean mumbles, 'Forget it, it's nothing,' but Sam shoots him a look and Dean lowers his eyes, his mouth tight, and sits gingerly on the edge of the king-sized bed they'll be sharing, his shorts in his hand. This was the only room available, and at this point they're too tired and sore to bother with a cot.

Sam warms up the ointment in his hands before soothing it into Dean's back. He frowns at how warm Dean's skin is and wonders if maybe he's running a fever. It would explain a lot.

'You OK?' says Sam.

Dean's back tenses under Sam's hands and he shoots him a dirty look over his shoulder. 'I'm fine.'

Sam presses some Tylenol on him, muttering 'Here, take these anyway,' and then it's his turn to hit the shower. By the time he's done, the sun is bright around the edges of the blinds, and Dean is asleep, his breaths coming long and even. Sam tiptoes to the bed, turns out the last light and crawls in.

* * *

When Sam wakes up around noon, he takes one look at Dean and knows they aren't going anywhere today. His brother is white as a sheet, his skin shiny with sweat, his body hunched up tight. Sam presses a hand to Dean's forehead and mutters, 'Shit.'

Dean shivers awake and instinctively pulls away from Sam's touch. What kind of an instinct is that, Sam wonders. He knows human contact is another basic need. Love, Dean.

'Freak,' Dean croaks, and rolls over.

'You should take some more Tylenol,' Sam says.

'Blow me.'

Sam gets the Tylenol and a glass of water and stands in front of his brother. 'Dude, just take the pills.'

For a minute Sam thinks Dean's going to clock him, but then he just takes them, the pills and the water, and lays back down.

'Feel better,' Sam says.

Half the day is gone and Sam doesn't know what to do with himself. He could go for a walk, but Dean looks bad enough he doesn't want to leave him on his own. Food, he decides, is paramount. He digs up a phone book and orders pizza.

Now he'll research, try to find them another gig. It's important to have a project.

After awhile Dean's breathing starts to sound bad. Congested. A couple more hours go by and Dean coughs himself awake. His eyes are glassy, his face flushed as he blinks across the room at Sam in apparent confusion.

'How you feeling?' Sam asks. Dean just rubs his face and then buries his head under a pillow.

'That good. Ouch. Here, take one of these.' Sam tosses a packet of flu pills onto the bed. Dean just lies there with his head buried, and coughs harshly.

Sam waits, but it doesn't look like Dean's coming out anytime soon, so he goes over to the bed and sits down beside him, pries the pillow off his face. Dean scowls up at him, flushed and miserable.

'What?' says Dean.

Sam tests his forehead again and starts to get worried. 'You going for a record or something?' He pops a pill out of the package and puts it in Dean's hand, then leans over Dean to get his water and hands that to him too. Dean complies, no smartass remark, and yeah, Sam's worried now.

He wets a clean cloth in the bathroom, puts it on Dean's forehead. Dean opens his eyes, makes a face and pushes it off, saying 'What the fuck.'

Sam is reassured. 'For me, Dean, do it for me.' He puts the cloth back on his brother's face and this time Dean leaves it alone. Dean starts coughing again, but soon the pill kicks in and he falls asleep.

It's dark out. Sam hasn't found anything interesting online. He flips on the TV with the volume down low, but nothing is distracting enough. He stretches out on the bed and looks at the ceiling and thinks about Jess.

* * *

When Dean wakes up, it's dark out. All the lights in the room are off, but the TV is on and set to mute, lighting up the room weird and sad.

Dean is feeling pretty badly. No one's around, so it's safe for Dean to let himself know this. He's hot and cold, he can't breathe properly, and everything aches. On top of that he's got a feeling there's something important he was supposed to do and didn't, but he really has no idea what it could be. He has no idea what the consequences might be either, and that bothers him.

Out of nowhere Dean starts to cough, and his back seizes up, the extra pain surprising him. It's a full minute before he's able to stop coughing.

'Jesus,' Sam says next to him, 'you sound rough, man. It's too soon for another flu pill, so what do you want to do?'

Dean covers his face with his hands, embarrassed. 'I'm not frigging five, Sam.'

'Dude, I know that, but the faster you get better, the faster you and I can get out of this crappy little town. Help me out.'

Dean coughs again, and involuntarily sucks in a breath at the pain in his back. Sam doesn't miss it.

'Your back's got to hurt. That ghost really fucked you up. Let me grab the ointment.' He doesn't wait around for Dean to put up a fight, and Dean is grateful.

When Sam lifts up Dean's shirt to get at his back, Dean shudders at the temperature change. He feels Sam go still behind him. Then Sam shifts around some more and Dean suddenly feels cold plastic in his hand.

He opens his eyes. It's a thermometer.

Sam is smiling tentatively down at him in the weird TV light. 'I just need to know.'

Dean sighs and puts the thing in his mouth. Then Sam's hands are on his bare back, soothing ointment in warm circles, and suddenly things are looking up. Sam has strong fingers and he's not pussying around, although Dean notices he's going easy on the actual bruises, just skimming over them with the warm ointment. Dean is kind of impressed.

The thermometer beeps and Sam pulls Dean's shirt back down, takes the thermometer straight from Dean's mouth. He turns on a lamp to read it, and Dean shrinks from the glare, pulling the blankets up over his head.

'Dean, no,' Sam says. Sam sounds stressed, so Dean is guessing his temperature's up there.

'Dude, the light,' says Dean.

Sam snaps the light off, then yanks the covers down to Dean's waist.

Dean is shivering, and cranky. 'What the hell.'

'You can have the sheet,' says Sam, and strips the rest of the blankets off him completely, bunching them at the foot of the bed.

'No way,' says Dean, 'give 'em back.' He pulls at the blankets, but now Sam is kneeling on top of them, and Sam is just too heavy.

'Dean,' says Sam. 'Trust me on this one.'

Dean sees something in Sam's eyes that makes him stop pulling on the blankets, and again he tries to think what it might be he's forgotten to do. He's getting nervous.

'Fine, have it your way,' Dean huffs, laying back. 'This sucks.'

'I know it, brother.'

Sam disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a fresh glass of water and another wet facecloth.

'OK,' says Sam, 'here's what we're going to do. We're going to watch this infomercial, because it's the only thing on. It's on for another half hour. While we're watching, I need you to keep this bad boy on your face, and I need you to drink this whole glass of water. When the show's over, I'm going to check your temperature again. If you've cooled off enough, I'll let you have the blankets back. If you haven't, I'm taking you to see a doctor. Are you down?'

'When did you get so bossy?' says Dean. But he's down.

After the infomercial, the boys know more about electric knives than they ever needed to, and Dean's fever is backing off. Sam pulls the covers up over them both and they settle in for a few more hours of sleep.

* * *

The next time Sam wakes up it's ten in the morning.

Dean is still asleep. He's much cooler to the touch, and sweating buckets. Those are good signs, and Sam is relieved. He takes a shower, then grabs them some juice from the vending machine in the motel office. When he gets back, Dean is gone from the bed and Sam can hear the shower running. Sam is kind of impressed.

A few minutes later the water shuts off and Dean comes out in a clean set of street clothes. Sam raises an eyebrow.

Dean sees Sam and flashes him a grin, but his face is decidedly pasty, right down to the lips, and halfway to the door he looks so wobbly that Sam can't help but come forward to steady him.

'Fuck off,' says Dean, but Sam doesn't let go until he's got him seated at the little table by the door.

'And I thought I was in a hurry to get out of here,' jokes Sam. 'Jesus, Dean, give yourself a minute.'

'I've had a minute,' says Dean. 'I'm done. Let's get the fuck out of here.'

He starts coughing. Sam hands him a bottle of juice, watches him doubtfully, glances over at the sweat-soaked sheets.

'Are you sure? That was a rough night. I wouldn't mind laying low today myself.'

'You're restless as shit and you know it, and so am I. So how about it, have you found us a gig?'

Sam hesitates. 'Yeah, but Dean, really? You just almost passed out.'

'I'm sure, OK? So where are we headed?'

Sam shakes his head, then shrugs. If it's a bad decision, they can always stop at the next motel they pass.

'Colorado,' he says, 'and I'm so driving.'

* * *

end


End file.
